Gymnastics
by Xarra
Summary: A purely descriptive short piece - Quatre watches Trowa.


Gymnastics

AN: Written in 2003. An old piece I thought I'd throw up. :)

The swiftest whisper of movement catches my eye in the cold corridor, and I turn, subjecting the frosted gymnasium doors to further study. There, again, the dart of colour in the icy patterns, leaping impossibly high, twisting and darting like the northern lights across my vision.

I know, without needing to open the door what, or rather who, the shape is. The envy of the gymnastic team only bearly outweighs their admiration of his talent and looks. They're always trapping him in a corner, supposedly to ask him for tips and advice, their eyelashes fluttering like their mouths. And they do have good reason for both. And he has good reason to practise after school.

Opening the door, I slip in, careful not to disturb the intense concentration I know will lurk in the emerald eyes. I don't need to worry, no matter how flipantly he may toss off spins and flips during missions, his practise is as serious and focused as Heero on a good - or should that be bad? - day.

The statue poised on the end of the long wooden beam suddenly flares into life once again, long arms and slender legs a blur. First a cartwheel, then a flip, spin, flip, motionless in a handstand as time halts. Legs fall open into splits, then off again, spin, flip, over and over down the narrow padded bar. Two handed turns into one, before he executes his trademark triple spin for a dismount, landing with perfect ease.

Long fingered hands brush hair, wet with sweat and exertion, away from his eye, revealing the other. White powder from his palms - to help him grip on the beam I think - mingles with the chestnut brown strands and cakes with the dampness.

He doesn't look my way. He doesn't have to, he knows I'm standing here, watching him.

The white spreads to his forest green leotard, the white shorts hiding the mark of his exertions as he smoothes the lycra and polyester down.

Next the rings, the shiny metal hoops swinging loosely from their chains, waiting for him to master them. More white powder from the bowl by the apparatus, and he forgoes any assistance upwards, leaping and grasping his targets with catlike grace. He puts more weight on his right arm, the weaker, not having to work with the weight of his main weapon. He's been trying to build those muscles up.

The sweat falls across his face, over the leotard and down his legs, lingering for as long as they can on the hem of the shorts. The evening sun glistens on the droplets as he pulls himself up, then slowly lowers himself down, silent except for a rare gasp.

A minute, a second, an eternity of warming up, then he turns his body into a spinning, twisting, tumbling catherine wheel, pausing in a cross-like move. His legs freefall back beneath him and he's in liquid motion again. Twist, head over heels, spin, handstand. The rings stay motionless as he weaves around them.

In the still moments, I can see his hair's plastered over his forehead now, not even his bang being able to defy the gravity his body seems to be able to. The green of his eyes has softened to a flame, while a small smile risks revealing itself on his lips, and I know he's just performing for sheer pleasure.

And it's a pleasure to watch him.

With a grunt that echoes around the room, he dismounts with simple ease, flying through the air to land precisely on the mats, crouching like a jungle cat for a few moments. I've been told I'm like an angel, but he's the one with the wings.

He's moving to the aerobic mats now, a long stretch of blue ocean for him to roll and dive on, but the weight of books in my arms remind me reluctantly of my predetermined path to the library and the essay that's due in tomorrow.

Slipping back out the door, I glance back to see the sleek lithe body starting to slowly glide across the floor, relaxing muscles that have been pushed to their limits, stretching out to bask in the warmth of exhaustion.

The gymnastic team may be falling over themselves to worship you, but I'm content to watch and wait for you to tumble into the realisation that - I love you, Trowa Barton.


End file.
